


Auribus Teneo Lupum

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Cult, Cult Leader!Derek, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gore, Horror, Human Sacrifice, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Mass Murder, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Religious Propaganda, Stockholm Syndrome, renqart: cult au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2557049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first thing he smells is damp earth, a thick woody ashen smell that makes him cough, lungs heaving tendrils of smokey white vapor, specks of the thick blood clogging his nose and throat splattering against the dirt. </i>
</p><p>Cult!AU - Where Derek is a delusional head of a pagan god cult who brainwashes teenagers and kidnaps Stiles as a sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auribus Teneo Lupum

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cult!AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/81266) by Renqa. 



> I asked this wonderful, slightly twisted and talented artist for permission to write a fic about her Cult!AU Teen Wolf fanart at around the start of the year and I've only finished it now. I'd like to thank said artist (Renqa) for her generosity and although she may have forgot about this little agreement, her patience. This fic....has been the longest project I've ever worked on and I hope it has paid off.
> 
> Side note: Stiles is 16 in this fic and while that is the AOC where I am from, I know in many other places it is not, so for many Stiles is still a minor so...be warned. 
> 
> This is also one of the most disturbing things I have written and it's one of the most challenging things I've ever worked on and I think it's the most rewarding. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of this stunning Cult!AU and comments give me ambrosia.

__

 

__

 

_- &-_

 

_The first thing he smells is damp earth, a thick woody ashen smell that makes him cough, lungs heaving tendrils of smokey white vapor, specks of the thick blood clogging his nose and throat splattering against the dirt. His skin feels like prickling nettles, like he wants to scratch it off with his blunt fingernails and watch it peel away like rotting moss, dragging sea-stone over the wet slimy green substance till it sloughs. He can't scream anymore when the excruciating sting of burned rope lashes his back. He can feel the air on his open flesh, the dirt under his finger nails scratchy and dry._  
  
 _His head is tilted upwards towards the sky. The fingers tighten in his hair, keeping his stiff body upwards. His knees hurt. It feels as though hours have past on his knees. The small rocks and twigs scratch at him, thorns wedge in to his calves. He blinks, swollen bloodshot eyes burning and painfully dry, coffee coloured iris' dull. Stars, like broken diamonds crushed up under the yellowed molars and pierced by the canines of arrogant Gods taunt him quietly, promising to scatter down and set him aflame. He knows they do not show that kind of mercy._  
  
 _"Di...Dim..." His tongue is moist and fat in his mouth, resisting the words, words that require energy he doesn't have. He swallows thickly. "Dimitte.."_

_His accent sounds so foreign and ugly to his ringing ears and make him wince. "Dimitte...peccata..." He's frozen, burning like ice. He is always too close, the figure beside him too close. He had tried._  
  
 _"Dimitte peccata mea." He breaths._

 

_- &-_

 

Stiles wakes to the sound of tinkling chimes. He rolls on to his side. His eyes snap open at the sharp stab of pain. Scrambling in the dirt, Stiles sits up, his breath coming out in short puffs of air. Slowly he looks around the forest, it can't be earlier than five, the sky a watery blue visible through the slim gaps between the colossal trees. Stiles remains unfazed by his naked body, he knows now not to be. He notes the bruises and cuts, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He hears the twinkling sound again, he looks up at the lowest branches of the trees above him.

The small skulls and hollow bones swaying ever so slightly, intricately threaded beads and carefully plaited string hold them up in to a mockery of a mobile. Stiles closes his eyes, eyelashes brushing the dirtied skin below them, and takes a deep breath, the air is cool and fresh and almost smells faintly of fresh linen. Stiles had been terrified the first time he'd seen them, paralyzed with fear as his vision blurred the stained red strings like sinewy tendinous chords against the inky black sky. It appeared as though the skulls had laughed at him as a scream tore through his body and he had tried to run, scurried to his feet and tried to cover himself with his hands, running through the trees as if he could escape the labyrinth of aged trees. It had been pitiful. Now he lay himself down on to the ground again, the skin on his back stinging.  
  
The leaves rustled in greeting above, a few falling down to join him on the ground. He knows to wait, he wouldn't be able to find his way if he didn't, he would get lost if he did and if he got lost he was punished once found. He didn't need that right now. He swore multiple times that he would be blast apart by the added pain if he were to go through another punishment. It was best to wait.  
  
Stiles licked his lips and tasted his own blood, a flavor he was used to, salt against his tongue. He feels the footsteps nearing before he hears them, the faint vibration of the unstable earth below him, then the prickle against his arms and the abrupt raise of the fine downy hairs atop them. When he does hear them, they are heavy soft thuds and the crunching of freshly fallen leaves and a faint scratch of stone.  
  
Derek kneels beside him, looming at his shoulder. Stiles looks at him carefully, half the time he appears just as large as the trees and no less difficult to navigate. His belt buckle clatters minutely as he puts his hand in his pocket and removes a simple pendant. He dangled it above Stiles, hovering between his eyes, making them blur and melt the image of himself and his blue eyes... _so blue_...with the single Raven's talon attached with twine to the thread of red rope. Stiles gasps in awe at it. Animals were sacred, any part of the bone or the flesh was to be honored and to receive a part of one, not just any, but the friend of the God's was... _monumental_.  
  
Stiles didn't dare reach for it, instead remained completely still as it was lowered on to his chest. Derek let the thread slip through his fingers and land silkily on Stiles.  
  
"Dimitte peccata mea." Stiles whispered easily.  
  
Derek nodded, eyes drifting along Stiles limp body. Derek rose to his feet abruptly, turned and began walking away. Stiles followed.

 

  _- &-_

  
  
  
 _"The wolves are your God." **His** voice reverberated in to every space, booming and flat. He looked around him, head swiveling from side to side as fast as he could, his heart pounding so hard against his chest he feared it would break through his ribcage and fall to the ground below to be swallowed up by the Earth, leaving him behind to live this...this **hell.** Tears stung his eyes and fell in fat droplets against his cheeks, he couldn't do this, he didn't k **now** w **hat** to do. The leaves rustled and he wiped around, he  **knew** there was someone there running faster than he was, gaining on him like an **animal**. Still he ran, his head throbbed with a pain that tore his skull open and exposed his sticky addled brain to the consuming darkness, pulling at his clothes and tugging at his laces till he tripped. His hands fisted in the grass, he needed to get up, get up **now**._  
  
 _A boot at his back held him down._  
  
 _It stomped on his spine so hard it knocked the remaining air he had out of him, his mouth filling with mud and the sound of his spine crunching dangerously making him choke._  
  
 _The breeze stopped. The forest hushed._  
  
 _"Pray for forgiveness and they may show you mercy."_  
  
 _He had never heard the scrape of a knife leave its sheath with intent before then._  
  
  
 

_- &-_

  
  
  
Derek walked through the empty camp, the dwindling curling smoke from the fire pit dark grey, marring the tents around it. The others would remain asleep till the Sun rose fully. Derek stepped on discarded notebooks and weapons, not caring to avoid them like Stiles did, cautiously navigating his way around every fallen item on the ground. Half of what was here was taken from people just like him. Teenagers, young reckless sinners who cared too little and said _too much;_ dragged out of their tents and clawed to death for their _misdeeds_. The streaks of blood on the side of the tents were not yet starting to fade, like the misty quality smudged over the thin clouds.  
  
"This way." Derek's gruff voice orders. Stiles followed him deeper in to the woods, staring at the back of Derek's head and keeping on track. In his head he repeats his prayers, it was a necessity.  
  
They stopped at the river. The clear liquid rippled against the stones below and beside it, shallow and pure. Derek crouched down and dipped his leather gloved hand in. His hair was black, darker than his leather jacket and cut short. Sometimes it looked like coal, other days it looked like ink that Stiles refrained from guiding his fingers in to, ink stained.Stiles rarely got this luxury of bathing.  
  
Derek stood and nudged Stiles towards the waters edge. Stiles stepped in immediately, the freezing run of water, undeterred by his presence on its course downstream, almost cruel in its indifference. Stiles knew cruelty, cruelty was his old life, the sins he'd been allowed to commit, to live with. This was _kindness_. Yes. _Kindness_. Stiles lowered himself in to the water, he sat on the smooth pebbles and the water barely reached his waist. Stiles was handed a small pumice stone, being careful not to touch Derek's hand. Derek would not permit touch, touch with a sinner like Stiles was dirty and took weeks to erase. Stiles knew the consequences, had felt the thundering against his face for what he'd tried to do for weeks after and all because he'd been foolish enough to beg for mercy, clutching to a jean pant leg like a life line. This _was_ mercy. He was being humbled.  
  
Derek remained standing, watching. Stiles was used to his palpable gaze. He dipped the stone in to the water and carefully scrubbed at his skin, the clinging layer of dirt drifting off him and following the rivers course leaving behind a sensitive pink. Stiles washed his legs and feet first, listening to the melodic whistle of birds awakening and the baritone thrum of the forest he hadn't paid attention to.  
  
"Dimitte peccata mea." Stiles muttered and he noted Derek's nod from the corner of his eye.  
  
Stiles washed his arms and dug the stone beneath his fingernails, the blood running away as it touches the water.  
  
Stiles paused and set the stone down on the grass beside him and quickly plunged himself backward in to liquid cold.  
  
  
  
 

_- &-_

  
  
  
_He spluttered and coughed. Lifted by rough hands he tried to scratch at the them to let him go, he screamed as his head snapped to the side from the force of a fist._

_His body ached and his chest heaved with the effort of breathing before he was submerged in water again. He could hear words above him, but the water drowned the letters around his ears and all he wanted to do was **breath**._  
  
 _What could only be claws shred the skin of his back, he was being picked apart like a bloody carcass, his flesh leaving his bone easily and exposing him. The water thickened and he struggled. **Blood** , warm blood, whether his own or otherwise filled his lungs. His spinal chord sang as it broke under the dizzying strength. He could feel it all yet he couldn't quite place where each part of his body was placed. He couldn't make sense of it, he could feel **everything**._  
  
 _He was wrenched back out by his hair, chunks ripping out of his scalp like plucked grass._  
  
 _"Anima Lupi..." The words filled his ears like hornets. He couldn't catch the rest of it, his eyes revolving in their sockets and blackening his vision._  
  
  
 

_- &-_

  
  
  
  
Stiles sat up, content that the blood on his back was gone and his wounds were clean, he knew they had been closed, but he couldn't shake the feeling of them remaining exposed and gaping. It was pivotal that he remained clean as an offering. Stiles splashed his face with water and rubbed at it with the palms of his hands, scratching away what was left under his nose and on his lips.  
  
"You will be beautiful." Derek said, his face expressionless as it often was. A beautiful sacrifice, it was Stiles' purpose. The reason he was chosen. _Saved_.

Stiles finishes bathing and spends a few seconds catching the water in the palms of his hands before letting it trickle through the gaps in his fingers. The sunlight makes the water glitter in Stiles' palms like magic, magic Stiles is all too aware isn't the stuff of fairytales anymore. He lets his hands drop and slowly stands up, stepping out on to the grass, the tall blades sticking to his wet feet and legs. Stiles stands and waits as Derek's eye trail his wet body; his skin goose-pimples against the gentle breeze

He follows Derek back to camp, aimlessly looking around the forest. If he stood still and looked at one particular spot, it would not be the same after he blinked. The dense foliage seemed to blend in to one another and shift like iridescent tides. He had long since stopped trying to gather his barrings because the forest had none. It had no North or South or Up nor Down, it just was, a fact that Stiles had to accept over and over again.

When they arrived at camp the others were awake. Boyd was busy poking a fresh fire and Erica and Issac busied themselves searching through backpacks and jacket pockets that didn't belong to them. They all ignored Stiles, something he was grateful for when he'd been more self conscious. Derek opened the flap of the nearest tent, his own, and Stiles ducked inside it. It was relatively big, enough to fit at least five and the sleeping bags and soft looking blankets were spread out everywhere. Stiles noticed a silver flask and a stained coffee cup resting against the furthest left hand corner of the tent. He sat on a folded sleeping bag, aware he was dripping water on to the rustling fabric as he dried himself off with the towel Derek threw in after him before leaving him alone.  
  
The tent was a glowing dim orange color with green trimmings, quite a nauseating combination, but Stiles reckoned what happened inside the tent was more important than its surface. Stiles looked around himself. Derek sometimes left him clothes to wear and Stiles didn't think too much about where he got them from. Derek himself mostly wore the same items of clothing every day and Stiles had never seen a discarded t-shirt or a pair of sweats belonging to Derek ever. It didn't seem like Derek had any personal items. Stiles knew Erica had a few because her clothes were often similar, but different in colour and she sometimes wore a thin silver chain around her neck. They were constantly moving so they needed to travel light Stiles supposed.  
  
Stiles picked up the lone folded pair of beige cotton trousers, slightly too big around the legs and waist, but with a drawstring that Stiles tied tightly, securing the trousers on his sharp hipbones. He didn't really expect there to be anything else for him to wear and there wasn't. The trousers themselves were a modesty Stiles didn't deserve.  
  
Squinting at the sun, Stiles exited the tent and located Derek sat on a large rock in front of the fire speaking with Boyd quietly. It was always quiet and loud noises just made him nervous now. Stiles sat beside Derek on the empty space on the floor beside Derek and crossed his legs. They didn't even seem to notice he was there as he picked up a book off the stack Issac had probably made nearest to him and flicked through the pages. It wasn't a book belonging to the previous campers, it was one of Derek's, a delicate leather bound item with pages full of folklore, tradition and prayers so wordy that they made Stiles' eyes water. He put the book down, muttering his own simple prayer to himself and let his mind drift slightly.  
  
The silence meant it was easier for Stiles to think and order his thoughts carefully, sift out anything unsavory. It wasn't unsettling anymore, just _nice_.  
  
  
 

_- &-_

  
  
  
_He looked up from where he'd been pushed down to his knees. The grip on the collar of his shirt, (was it is his shirt? If not his then who's?) pressed hard enough on his airway to make him panic. He was confused, the hands let him go and left him there on the ground. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, his ears hearing the silence as deafening white noise. From what he could see he was at some kind of camp, a clearing in a part of the forest...(the middle? Or maybe south east of the river? )The camp had a flickering fire in the middle, its flames seeming to beckoning him to it, seduce him to its warmth. He didn't move. Something wasn't right at all. He couldn't hear properly, he couldn't make out if the shadows moving in the tents were real or not, if his mind as playing tricks on him._  
  
 _Someone left one of the tents closet to him. He didn't make a sound as they stepped out and poked at the fire, seemingly satisfied with its progress. They turned and called behind them. Two others left the confines of the tent and joined the first. They all wore similar thick jackets that looked warm and bright. They smiled and talked and made themselves comfortable around the prettily sparking flames and he couldn't...he couldn't understand the **normality.** Was he dreaming? Was he hallucinating, this had to be mirage, it was far to...pleasant a picture to be real. He counted the remaining shadows in the semicircle of tents next to the fire and one another. There were around eight left in their tents, lights radiating from inside them. Lanterns? Torches? He felt as though he'd knelt watching for hours when a gloved hand touched the back of his neck again, gripping tightly._  
  
 _" **Watch.** "_  
  
 _He turned and his scream was muffled by another gloved hand. In the dark behind him, emerging from the trees there were...He didn't know **what** they were. They looked to be around his age, young. But their faces were contorted...disfigured in to something frighteningly **inhumane** and undeniably **canine**. Three pairs of glowing yellow eyes in the dark like trapped fireflies shone and sharp row upon row of jagged teeth winked and camouflaged behind straight mouths. The claws elongated out of their fingers made him feel sick. He struggled, the hair on the back of his head being ripped out of his scalp in his efforts. A blunt impact to the back of his head stilled him, the tears in his eyes blurring the figures in to multiples and his breathing erratic and **loud** to his ears. They came closer and it took everything in him not to try and run, but...they weren't walking towards him. In fact they walked right past him as if he wasn't even there, like they were in a trance, advancing further away as his head whipped around to follow their movements. _

_They were heading towards the camp._  
  
 _Fingers jammed themselves down his throat stopping his scream. The taste and feeling of leather against his tongue making him drool, but he didn't care, he needed to **warn them** , let them know these...these **monsters** were heading straight for them. He watched helplessly as the eight...nine- were dragged out of their tents, their screams muted to his ears. He saw what those claws could do, those t **eeth**. He whimpered and chocked around the fingers in his mouth and he was sure he was biting down on them. How could one person produce so much **blood**? He panicked, they were all bleeding s **o much**. He'd surely drown in it if it didn't stop, be swallowed and drowned by it. _

_He watched._  
  
 _After what had to be days, everything went still. He could no longer comprehend what he was seeing, feeling, if he was inside his own body or not, only that it was shaking so violently he ended up facing the sky. Such ugly words passed through chapped lips, twisted and distorted noise. **This** was hell, **this** was dying._

 

_- &-_

  
  
Boyd passed a tin cup to Erica. Its steaming contents from the pot atop the fire. Issac sat beside Erica stirring his food slowly, his eyes unfocused and tired. Stiles accepted the food Derek offered him off his own spoon and ate it gratefully. It was a mixture of boiled lentils and tasteless herbs as always. Animals were sacred and to consume them was diabolical in the eyes of the Gods. _Barbaric_. It was enough to keep their energy up and their stomachs relatively full to last the day and it was an honor that they were even allowed to pick the greenery around them for their own use.  
  
"Are we leaving here?" Erica said. She hadn't touched her food.  
  
"No." Derek replied, tilting another spoonful of broth in to Stiles' mouth.  
  
Erica looked as though she were about to say something but stopped, instead shoving a spoonful of her own food in to her mouth and chewing. Erica liked to be on the move, she didn't like to stay in one place for very long and they'd been here for two days already, but she knew better than to argue with Derek. To argue with an Alpha.  
Stiles hadn't met another Alpha, another leader of the group of followers they called Pack. He wasn't sure if Derek was the worst of them, but they all lived by the same principles. The Paesidis lived to serve the God's and they were selfless and ruthless. Derek is the only one Stiles has ever met.  
  
Stiles looks over at Derek. He's never seen Derek eat. Even now all he does is watch. Stiles fingers the damp thread around his neck, the Raven's claw cold against his chest. Derek looks at where his hand is and meets his eyes. He hasn't seen Derek sleep either and yet there is no red weaving through the whites of his eyes. Sometimes if Stiles is at a certain angle, he can swear that he sees flecks of red in the iris instead, but before he can think much on it, it's gone. His head feels filled with cotton most days and formulating one thought and sticking to it is too much. When Derek meets his eyes the fog clears and Stiles can think through the haze and listen, as though Derek's eyes are the bright lights of a vehicle through the fog in winter.

 

_- &-_

  
  
_He wraps his arms around his knees and pulls them in to himself. He watches warily as the man beside him fixes a patch on the red t-shirt in his large hands. He looks from the mans hands to his mouth, moving as if reciting a poem. He's praying. He doesn't understand the words leaving his mouth and he isn't sure it's a language that even exists and he just watches. It's getting colder and his skin is starting to blister from the frost in the air. He doesn't have clothes, he doesn't have anything to cover himself with but his own long limbs to preserve the fragment of modesty he has left. He knows this man has seen him naked before, many times, but his mind is usually too preoccupied to think about his bare form. Now however, it is quiet and they are alone and he is in front of a man he is terrified of and he is naked. Vulnerable._  
  
 _He has heard this man pray before, but hasn't ever seen. His eyes are blue. A sharp cut of cyan, glowing in the shade of the thinning trees._  
 _He doesn't know this mans name yet, where he came from. He isn't sure he knows anything anymore. He shakes his head to ward off the fuzzy feeling prodding at the outskirts of his consciousness._  
  
 _The man finishes his last stitch and pins the needle on to the lapel of his thick leather jacket. The man throws the t-shirt at him and he catches it just before it can hit the damp ground. He looks up. Before he can question it, the man is getting up and leaving, disappearing in to the forest._  
  
 _He lifts the shirt up. He spots the small splash of blood at the hem of the t-shirt and his stomach churns. He balls the shirt in to a fist in his hands tightly and shakes his head as if to dislodge the rampant thoughts sticking to his skull. No. That isn't right. The wind dances across his back like a blade and it hurts. It's like being scalded._  
  
 _He can't. It just isn't right. His teeth chatter and he almost bites his own tongue. He looks around himself and down at the shirt in his dirty hands. He bites his lip and quickly pulls it over his head and fits his arms through. It's slightly warm where the patch is and he curls in on himself again. It's still freezing, but...better._

 

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
Issac yawns and puts his cup down. It's half empty, bits of lentil floating at the top of the watery surface. Erica still hasn't touched hers and Boyd didn't make anything for himself. Stile's finished the broth in Derek's cup, who is now on the other side of the camp looking through the piles Erica and Issac sorted. Stiles avoids eye contact with all of them, sitting cross legged on the ground and waiting. He can feel Issac look at him first. He doesn't have to look up to know those pale eyes are watery and conflicted. Issac is the only one Stiles has ever talked to. Stiles however knew that Issac was as far away from the innocence in the down turn of his lips as possible.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
 _The boy cleaned his wounds. He had seen this boy before, grotesque and haunting. Now he looked normal, young. He knew what the boy could be however and that was enough for him to keep his guard up as he let the boy sweep a rough sponge over his back, clearing up the blood and mud that the rain hadn't gotten to yet._  
  
 _"I'm Issac." Issac says quickly as if he had been trying to stop himself from saying it._  
  
 _He was startled and looked at Issac with wide eyes over his shoulder. Issac ducked his head and smiled slightly._  
  
 _"I don't..." He began_  
  
 _"I know, don't...don't worry about it." Issac interrupted. He didn't remember his name, he didn't know if he had had one. Maybe it started with a G? Or an...I? He couldn't think hard enough to get to it, somewhere in the crevices of his mind. Everyday the beatings had become lessened and in their place he recited prayers and passages for hours. Some things he didn't understand, somethings he couldn't stomach to think about, but it was better than being dragged through the mud kicking and screaming._  
  
 _"Derek said that you're his choice. I didn't think he'd actually-"_  
  
 _"Derek?" He cut Issac off. He had a vague idea about what was going to happen to him and the thought rattled his bones, he rather not hear about it._  
  
 _"Yeah. The Alpha." Issac said matter of factually as if it was common knowledge. It irked him that Issac would speak that way, as if anything he was going through was just... **nothing**._  
  
 _"What does that make you?" He spat. He only regretted it slightly when the sponge was dragged a little more harshly over his arms._  
  
 _"Just one of the pack." He could hear the smile in Issac's voice. It made him want to scratch his eyes out. "I couldn't be one of the Paesidis if I tried. That's what Derek is."_  
  
 _Paesidis. He had heard that word before, in fact he'd recited it in a prayer not long ago, maybe yesterday...or a week ago. From what he did understand, they were people filled with dark magic. Guardians of the Deities._  
  
 _"Derek is...something else, I could never be like him." Issac muttered._  
  
 _He didn't say anything in return, just stayed quiet as he was rinsed off. He didn't see the point of this. The ground was thick and goopy with mud, his feet practically submerged in it and his t-shirt was gone now. He hadn't had time to feel bitterness, but he recognized that niggling feeling in his chest and it didn't feel good. He hated Issac. Issac didn't say another word and neither did he._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
Issac gave Stiles a wary smile. Stiles returned it. He'd come to like Issac despite his skittish nature that sometimes made Stiles nervous. Issac would clean Stiles wounds before he was allowed to do it himself. Issac had been Stiles only thread to Derek in the beginning. He talked a lot when they were alone, was as quiet as night when they were not. Issac tended to babble, seemed to speak before he thought. He'd told Stiles that what they all were was a pack. The name given to the groups within their cult, descendants of wolves, running together. _Cleansing_ the earth. Issac had told Stiles about Derek. About who he was, what he came from. Derek's family had died in a fire when he was fourteen, his uncle, Peter, had burned the thing to the ground the day after he joined the cult. An offering to the Gods. He'd kept Derek and his sister beside him the entire time. Made them watch him pour petrol on everything, light the match, hear their parents and siblings and the rest of their family scream and smell their charred flesh. He had told them they were _honored_ to have witnessed it and they were going to help him do it again. Derek was taught the ways by his uncle, day and night, followed his every move, but his sister had been hesitant and Derek killed her, moved up in rank for such a sacred familial offering. He went from Omega to Beta within months, was lethal and methodical and never got caught. He dedicated himself to his cause, lived and breathed it. He killed his uncle to become Alpha.  
  
Stiles didn't understand the majority of it, but he understood enough. Derek was dangerous, Derek was _animal._ But he cleaned Stiles' wounds like he were a tiny cub, watched over him like one of his own and _enlightened_ him. He didn't deserve that. Derek was _brave_ , the things he had done without a doubt, the doubt that still crept in to Stiles' mind that Derek helped remove with firm hands and words Stiles didn't have enough time to learn in the time he had left.  
  
Derek gave Stiles, purpose. He had been lost, _juvenile_ and Derek had saved him. He was an offering, something special, something sacred now. He had a goal to look to, a path however brief. It was his duty to suffer for it. To suffer for Derek so he could better himself, improve his ability and perform as a Paesidis and Stiles had the honor of being part of that, being chosen.  
  
Derek had only been so brash before for Stiles own good. Had allowed Stiles to earn his presence and took care of him.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
 _Derek, as he was apparently called ,watched him eat. He was embarrassed at how rapidly he shoved the disgusting mix of berries and what was probably just fallen leaves in to his mouth with his hands, too busy trying to get something in to his stomach that wasn't blood to even cover up his naked body under the scrutiny of the other man. Derek stood. Derek hadn't sat down when he was with him for three days. Had shown up three days in a row. That was a shock in itself and he wasn't about to question it because he'd finally been given food, his ribs ached and his stomach swelled and convulsed uncomfortably, he could feel his ribs against his skin, but he was so **hungry**. Eyes flickering from Derek to his own hands, an oily substance coating them from the food in the wooden bowl he'd been given, symbols on the side he didn't want to try and decipher. Derek was regal in his posture and presence. He took up all the space in a way that was near to suffocating._  
  
 _Derek's eyes were the most fascinating. Blue, so bright and dark at the same time. Unreadable and blank, always poised on him, never wavering. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Derek's irises were the kind of blue like drenched roses against the startling white of his clear sclera, he had never gotten close enough to see the red veins, but he imagined they were there. Derek was tall and his dress was so normal, jeans a t-shirt and a leather jacket, all black, that it was disconcerting. He didn't know what he expected. The sky rumbled overhead and Stiles flinched. He hoped it didn't rain, but by the looks of the gray sky and the frighteningly close roar of the heavens it was inevitable. He'd be outside in the rain, it had rained before, but never a storm. He finished his food and put the bowl to the side, unsure of whether to hand it back. Derek didn't reach for it, instead kept watching him. He watched him back. Like prey would a predator, too afraid to look away for more than a second for fear of attack._  
  
 _He gingerly reached for the book on his other side. Bound in some kind of skin, it was dry and leathery to the touch. Derek had bought it with him and dumped it on the ground along with the food. His stomach churned. He had seen this book before, recognized its pages but he couldn't understand where from. It's words were in neat tightly packet English. Hand written. Its words...the sacrifice, the rites...he...he couldn't bring himself to believe it, digging his nails in to his thigh as he read and read and read, those burning eyes still at the top of his head. Doubt was poison. He had to **learn** ; he just had to._  
  
 _He blocked out the things he knew, had known. He was starting to forget them already. He was sure he had a Dad...or was it a brother? It came and went, fading so often he began to doubt its validity. At least this was real, at least the book he could hold, Derek he could see, pain he could feel and blood and dirt he could taste._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
Stiles picked up a stone, a jagged thing, small enough to just fit between his fingers. He put it to the ground and scratched a deep line in to the dirt.  
  
Once he had seen Derek's tattoo by accident, in another camp when he'd poked his head from the tent and watched, blocking out the screams. Derek had had his shirt off, his arms and claws outstretched, he was like a shadow in the fire light. His tattoo had stood out, a black swirl that Stiles could have sworn moved, rotated slowly, but it was hard to tell. Stiles draws it in the sand, unable to get it completely right from memory. He huffs, clears the dirt with his hand and tries again.  
  
Stiles is aware of Derek's capabilities, it's not as if he's blind. He looks to Derek who doesn't look down at him. Terrible Derek, capable of death Derek, but Stiles can't figure out why he ever saw the wrong in that. He amuses himself with little drawings in the dirt as Derek's low voice reverberates through his body. He can't hear the words, but they sound nice to his ears, he only frowns slightly when Derek stops talking for someone else to have a turn.  
  
Stiles looks up at the sudden silence. Erica is looking at him. She hates him the most. He can see it in her eyes and she'd spoken about him before with distaste, sneered at him over the camp fire as he curled up beside Derek. Stiles doesn't mind though. She's not important, she's not Derek and her blonde hair doesn't bleed in to the night like his and her eyes don't look like blooming poisonous flowers.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
" _When are you going to do it, you're wasting time!" He can hear her hiss. He's in the tent under a blanket he doesn't own that smells like perfume and wood, but he can hear her just fine. "We can't keep him around, you need to do it already, **it's not** -"_  
  
 _"Are you questioning me?" The question was calm and measured, but he knew who had said it, knew his voice better than he knew himself and the tone made him flinch._  
  
 _"No I- I'm just saying that it would be better if-" He heard a gasp and a chocked off noise. He crawled quickly towards the flap of the tent. The gap was so slight, but big enough to see her blonde hair shinning in the firelight, a large fist tangled within it, pulling tightly. Her thin hands clutched at it and her neck was bent at a strange angle. It didn't look very comfortable._  
  
 _"You certainly took your time with your own offspring, Erica." His voice didn't change in pitch or tone at all. It was disconcerting, it didn't fit._  
  
 _"I-that was **different** I- **please** -"_  
  
 _"How so?" Derek countered._  
  
 _"Please..." Her voice whispered. Offspring? Stiles had certainly never seen a child among them, maybe they were hiding, or with another pack._  
  
 _"Should I tell Boyd? What you did, have done?"_  
  
 _" **No!"** She seemed to struggle before falling limp again. "No...please. I'm sorry...please have mercy...Alpha..." She whined._  
  
 _A long moment passed with nothing but the crackle of the fire and his own breathing filling the quiet._  
  
 _"Next time I won't be so kind. You will mind your own business from now on."_  
  
 _"Yes! Yes, anything...anything, **please**."_

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
"We can stick to the west, there may be more there." Boyd said.  
  
"We don't have to rush, we can afford to hunt in two days if timing is right." Erica had stopped looking at him now, her hands folded primly in her lap in a way that made Stiles sniff.  
  
"It doesn't matter as long as we hunt them." Derek drawled. They were talking about hunting others, really they were saving them, giving them merciful retribution. He wished they stopped calling it hunting, hunting was what animals did for food. He could see why however, _they_ used hunting as an excuse to kill forefathers, murder Gods, it was almost poetic to have the tables turned on them like that.  
  
"Will I get to see it?" Stiles asked before he even thought about it, the words tumbling out of his mouth. The leather covered hand that struck his face was just as fast. Derek didn't look incredibly angry and Stiles apologises before shutting up. He knew he wasn't supposed to speak unless spoken to, especially not interrupt pack, but he still sometimes couldn't keep quiet, found it hard not to talk, but he was learning, he was trying. Stiles ignored Issac's nervous look his way, instead picking up his stone again and pressing it to the skin of his calf. He scratched not hard enough to scar, he wasn't allowed to do that, he had to be perfect, but enough to leave a trail of dust he could draw with.  
  
Derek doesn't get mad at him often. When he does he really does. His teeth bare and he _hurts_ and Stiles knows he deserves it, isn't embarrassed how used to it he is, but sometimes...only sometimes he wishes...he doesn't really know but...Derek won't touch him with his hands, he always keeps his gloves on, won't touch an unclean body like Stiles'. Just once had he...Stiles is naked a majority of the time, is no longer embarrassed about his body, but he still feels heat in his cheeks whenever he's around Derek, when he catches Derek's eye while he bathes in the stream. He isn't sure what to do about it.  
  
Stiles can't remember the last time Derek got really mad at him.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
  
 _Derek holds his face tightly in his gloved hands. His burning cheeks squished against the fabric, pushing his mouth open and letting the cold air sting his bloodied mouth. Derek looks at him with a curious disgust that makes him want to hide his face, claw at himself and curl in to a tight ball. He wonders if Derek was this way with his ex-wife. He knows he shouldn't think about it, knows it's why he got in trouble, why Issac will get in trouble, but he's so curious sometimes. He knows her name was Kate, isn't sure if Derek is capable of love, but if he married her she must be something else. He wonders if she's as scary as Derek, as bone crushingly frightening._  
  
 _Derek lets him drop to the ground. Just like that. Derek had never been so rough with him before, so angry. He watches the back of Derek's boots as he walks away._  
  
 _He had tried to run away that night, always tried to run. His breathing was sharp and painful and tears spilled from his eyes and made mud beneath his cheeks. He didn't mean to make him mad. He didn't want to, not ever again._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
When Stiles looks up again the rest of the pack aren't sitting on the log anymore. He looks around and see's they are closer to the tents. He doesn't bother figuring out what they're doing. He looks up at Derek who briefly looks down his nose at him. It's enough to make Stiles shiver, want to curl up and clutch Derek's leg, but he knows he'd get in trouble for that.  
  
Just one touch, not a slap or a shove, he'd do anything for. He knows he's going to die, Derek was always honest with him about his place. He knows it's selfish to even want anything before he's offered, but...he can't help wanting, sees the way Derek looks at him sometimes.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
 _He had wanted to run. His feet had itched and his chest had clenched painfully, his mouth yearning to scream as if he'd been stung on the lips by hornets. A new member of the pack, new and cocky had hurt him and Derek had torn him apart right there and then without hesitation or much care. He had dry heaved and been left alone in the dark to struggle for a sliver of air. The ghost of a scream heavy on his tongue._  
  
 _He dug his nails in to his palms. Derek stood so **serenely**. The...the **bodies** around him. So **red,** scattered like ash and slumped like coal around him. Their eyes unseeing, the ones that still had them. He looked at Derek, this...this **monster** , this **killer**. He wanted to be sick again, felt as though he was trying to escape out of his own tightly bound skin._  
  
 _"Why aren't you running?" Derek asked, walking over the bodies like rocks._  
  
 _"I can't." He whispered, gasping and feeling water swell at the corner of his eyes. It was honest, it hurt to say it, but it was the truth, the truth was important. His voice seemed too loud to his own ears, too **much**._  
  
 _"I'm going to kill you." Derek stated, his leather bound hand coming up to cup his cheek so lightly it was almost not there at all and he almost fell to the ground. His mouth opened in a noise that made him feel shame right from his feet to the ends of his hair._  
  
 _"I'm going to kill you one day." Derek told him. When he said it like that, with someone elses blood splatters across his face, his eyes glowing it...it didn't sound so wrong. This close he smelt like rain and salt._  
  
 _"I know." He nodded. He did know, he'd always known. He **had** to stop running, he couldn't run anymore, his legs could barely keep him up as it were, the moisture on his eyelashes just so heavy._  
  
 _And Derek kissed him._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
  
The others began moving around him, but Derek does not, so Stiles doesn't. He practiced emptying his mind and reciting some more prayers. Asking for forgiveness, for guidance and clarity. For better submission. That was what the Aciei had asked for him, what he needed to do was give in. Let go and free himself to their wishes. He was outside himself now, his earthly opinion didn't matter and remembering that would make this easier, better.  
  
Stiles had dreamed of the council. He remembered lying and feeling a pain so great he thought he was going insane and then it had ceased and the world had gone black.  
  
  
Derek stands abruptly, upsetting Stiles' balance, his hand grazes the rough ground as he steadies himself and looks up. The dull silver sun shinning at Derek's back, the long shadow of his large body looming over Stiles' form, head tilted up and eyes squinted to block out the bright white glare reflecting off Derek's darkness sharply. He was breathtaking, like a vortex standing in the middle of the clearing, rustling the trees around him like a natural disaster waiting to happen, evading light like death and sucking Stiles in like air.  
  
"Come." Derek ordered shortly and turned on his heel. Stiles hurried to stand, scrambling after him quickly, his long strides hard to keep up with while holding up the loose fabric draped around his bony hips. He remembered he used to fit in to them, the first time he was allowed clothes, the way he'd sobbed in to the fabric before he even put them on...now he couldn't remember why he cried, why he had wasted tears on something so _simple_ and unsophisticated when he could have _this_ , the slice of cold air on his pale bare skin and the simple pleasure of being led like a sheep through the woods by Derek.  
  
They walked in to the darker area of the woods, the parts that Stiles stayed closer to Derek in, more fearful of the dark shadows between the trees than the silent man. Stiles knew where they were going, another camp site, barren for the colder period of the month, but thick with lush green grass and diminutive bursts of petal and colour betwixt the thick blades of green. They broke the tree line and entered the field, the sun shone brighter here somehow, the almost perfect circle of trees cordoning it off and the subtle sound of trickling water from the nearby river so peaceful and putrid, a lie right in the open, ugly and deceptive. The perfect trap. In a few days the grass would be flattened and yellowed by the weight of tents and bodies, charred with flames and sprinkled with red. It was despicable, a valid cause for what they did, what the God's _wanted_ them to do.  
  
Derek riffled behind a large oak tree, dragging a sack, in the same fabric as Stiles' trousers out in to the open. He opened it and stuck his hand in. The clang of metal made Stiles flinch. Derek handed him a rusted but capable bear trap. The weight of it almost bowed Stiles back in two, but he carried it and lifted the heavy chain attachment in to the cradle of his arms, his fingers mindfully dodging the sharpness.  
  
Derek hefted a similar object out of the bag and carried it in one arm before closing the sack and hefting it over his shoulder, leading Stiles closer in to the center of the field. Its expanse seemed endless, as if they stood at the top of the Earth, where it curved, the treeline lower and the edges softer. If it were shaken the flowers would dislodge and tumble over them like gentle rain. Stiles muttered a small affirmation under his breath, shaking his head. _Dimitte..._ This wasn't for him, he wasn't worthy of this. Stiles crouched and began setting up the trap, it stretched longer than his entire torso and wider than his waist. It was over half the size of him and he got to his knees, pressing the edges firmly in to the dirt and ripping clumps of glass to reveal the dank moist mud beneath it. The trap blending in to the grass like a narrow fellow. Stiles looked up. Derek was setting up his trap a little further away. They often didn't use traps, but when it called for it, which Stiles assumed it did on this occasion, they did. There were all sorts of contraptions in the bag securely at Derek's side as he crouched, tinkering with bolts and copper wire. It was an innocent looking sack, but just looking at it had Stiles drawing his breath in muted fear.  
  
Stiles didn't know why he was here, he knew most of the traps had been set the day before, intricate nets and heavy metal, web like snares and rope. He knew better than to argue. It wasn't his place. He finished setting up the hidden razor teeth and sat back on the ground, feet and knees collecting mud. He dug his nails in to the dirt. Stiles watched Derek's hands manipulate the copper wire around a small tooth like rung in the ground. The hypnotic round and round and round motions of the glinting metal and Derek's large hands handling it roughly and delicately. His face was set in a concentrated frown, the austere set of his eyebrows and thin line of his lips severe, yet it softened something inside Stiles. Something he....couldn't quite remember understanding. It felt...mature and confusing, yet he couldn't bring himself away from it. The warmth the...flutter at the steady rise and fall of Derek's chest in the dark night on the rare occasion he closed his eyes. Stiles was fascinated by the detail of Derek's hand, the grooves and surprising lack of callouses. He saw them rarely, flashes of skin in the dark quickly covered by leather gloves, but now...his fingernails were trimmed, clean and blunt, the faint dusting of dark hair from his arms reaching out like vines, like his pulsing thick veins. Stiles shivered, the skin a few shades paler than Derek's face. Stiles wondered what those deft fingers could do. He'd seen them exert strength, brutality but...he knew they had tenderness in his fingertips. He'd never seen Derek run his fingers through his hair, never seen them twitch or hesitate.  
  
Stiles follows the dark paths of Derek's eyebrows to the pools of cold blue. They locked on his harder than the trap on unsuspecting legs.  
  
Stiles briefly notes they are alone. They were usually alone, but for now it seems important. The air around them is still as if trapped in motion, in a still life picture, the small wood sprites, dots of bugs vibrating against the sky like animated dust the only thing keeping the image moving. Alive. Despite their joined solitary most of the time few words that weren't orders and answers passed between them yet as Derek snapped the copper cord with a set of old pliers without breaking his unblinking stare he coils Stiles' insides far tighter in a tangle of respectful fear, admiration, something _deeper_ , darker, a plum like crimson colour like squashed summer berries that would permanently stain Stiles lips and fingers till his last final breath.  
  
All Stiles waits for is for the coil to spring.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
 _He slowly blinked his eyes open, a haze, like a veil over them slowly clearing like sticky tree sap, sliding out of his eyes and leaving his vision clear. Incredibly clear. Like he was focused on everything at once, like everything had been sharpened to a pin point and he could **see**. He tried to move, but couldn't. Looking down he saw why. He was upright, as he looked left and right he saw he was between two trees. His body was suspended, thin red wires went through his arms and in to the trees keeping him aloft, through his wrists at an angle and back out where they held him open._  
  
 _His skin was pulled back at his torso. He tilted his head and looked at his own organs, pumping blood on to the ground, watched his lungs rise and fall and he could just make out his heart beating. His legs dangled, streams of blood curling around his ankles and trickling steadily on to the dirt and grass below. But it didn't hurt. None of it hurt. **Nothing** hurt. He flexed his fingers and found they could still work. His mind felt as clear as his vision, peaceful. _

_He looked around himself, the cool air strange against his internal organs, slimy and slick against one another. He belatedly wondered why they hadn't fallen out yet, his rib cage was split in two, open like wings in front of him, like double doors. The birds might come and eat him. It looked like twilight. The surrounding trees were still visible, but the sky was still quite dark. It was very still. Not a leaf rustled, not a cloud in the sky. The only noise was Stiles' own body and the steady patter of his blood dripping to the ground._  
  
 _He couldn't stay like this of course. He wiggled his fingers. Then he rotated his wrist slowly. The wires running through them moved with him. He wasn't sure how to get down...He shook his wrist a little roughly, but still the wires moves with him, they were more like strings, but they weren't from any fabric Stiles had ever seen. They looked a lot like fishing wire, but finer. The wires went through the flesh under his forearms also, where the skin was goose pimpled. Sighing, he kicked his legs, the wires swung and he swung with them. That wouldn't do. He had to get down at some point._  
  
 _He looked at the wires carefully, how easily they threaded through his skin as though he were just a swath of milky fabric. Carefully Stiles moved his arm outward, the wires pulled lightly, but he continued till his arm was outstretched in front of him, the wires now pulled taught. His body lowered on that side, just slightly. He did the same with the right arm and his body lowered once again, his feet just brushed the tips of the blades of grass. He put both his arms down slowly and landed on the grass softly. He felt the wires slide out of his skin like silk. When he turned to see them, they were still connected to the tree, hanging loosely against the trunks like they hadn't been through him just a second before. He didn't think too much on it, thinking was dangerous. Instead he began to walk. He wasn't too keen on figuring out how to close his rib cage so he walked with it open, trailing blood behind him. It smelt strongly of copper, but the air also smelt like fresh grass and rain. It was an intoxicating blend and he stuck out his tongue to taste it._  
  
 _He walked only a short distance, when he looked behind himself he couldn't see the trees he'd been suspended from, he still kept walking, a thin mist gathering at his ankles as if to kiss them and he laughed, the sound not leaving his mouth. He knew where he was going, but at the same time didn't. When he got there he stood still. The clearing was huge, but so were they._  
  
 _The Aciei stood tall in the clearing, a dull light glowing on their bones, but it could have been from the moon. He wasn't sure. Their bodies were covered with billowing fabric. It must have been made out of moon beams and sea foam because he had never seen anything like it before on Earth and it moved as if a part of them. They were so very still. The council did not speak, so he did not. Instead watching enraptured at the half animal half spirit beings. Their heads the skulls of great animals they once were before they became second to the Gods, a long time before man and existence._  
  
 _He could feel his blood still running down his inner thighs. They spoke. He didn't so much understand as felt what they said. Didn't hear, but breathed what they saw. They spoke the language of the Earth, frightening and beautiful, their hollow eyes black like the abyss, their tongues lilting foreign and familiar. They were merely watchmen. Judges and jury. Their forms shifted, seemed to buzz and instantly move position elegantly, blurring and focusing as they spoke, facing him and one another, the claws of one floated as if hung by the same wires that had held him up. The beak of one jerked open and slowly lower before repeating this again. They settled, the Aciei in the middle,it felt feminine and cold, with antlers that stretched as it addressed him,  seemingly taking up the whole forest, sweeping past his form and nicking a few ribs, past the line of trees, so huge and strong filled him with grey ashen memories. They were beautiful, he would be beautiful. They snapped back to its long skull and the darkness below all of them shimmered, but he couldn't see it, not really, he just **knew**. They crackled and flickered, made noises he never knew existed and then they fell silent._  
  
 _He wanted to cry. He wanted them to speak again. They had told him all he needed to know, but why did they have to stop? They were still once more and he knew he had to leave now, leave the clearing and remember their words, noises, emotions that had flooded in and out of his body as if they were one._  
  
 _He turned and began walking again. He carefully shut his rib cage, but let the skin slough off, his heart beating against the burnt bone where the Aciei had touched._  
  
 _He woke._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
  
The tiny yellow buttercups reflect on Derek's fingertips, the contrast on his rough skin against the dainty subtle discs makes Stiles' head spin as Derek sets the reel of wire down. He could crush them, break the delicate stems under his large hands, bend them and obliterate them and put them back together again in to something unrecognizable. Stiles catches Derek's eye again. He knows where Derek keeps his knife. The serrated metal always kept firmly to Derek's hip like another part of him, one and the same.  
  
Derek's expression varied minutely. The eyes that shone on a hunt seemed the same when directed in to Stiles' soul and drew out any secret and any sin like moths to a flame. Derek isn't wearing his gloves, his hands are stained a faint reddish colour and Stiles wants to know what they feel like. He touches the cold pendant. He imagines an eternity goes by as they stare at one another, the world stopping its journey, refusing to spin and teetering on its axis to preserve this moment. The God's brought him to Derek for a reason. Whatever it was he has a _purpose_ and he can't help but want to dig it out, that indecent curiosity he tries so hard to shake off, that Derek tries to beat out of him, it makes him want to surge forward and find out exactly how those hands feel.  
  
But it's not his place. He is _not_ in charge. Stiles lowers his gaze.  
  
"Come here." The air crackles under the heaviness of Derek's words, threatening to restart the Earth's course once again. Stiles stands and steps carefully over the trap and pads towards Derek. He keeps his palms open and relaxed, his posture demure as Derek remains on his knees. He doesn't look him in the eyes. The hem of Stiles trouser legs brush the ground and stain.  
  
Stiles can practically feel Derek already, his presence as thick and cloying as anything else he could give Stiles. His skin burns with it, his eyelashes itch with a... _a need_ he can't put in to human words. Something ethereal and guttural ebbing in his chest in a voice that isn't his own.  
  
Stiles gasps. The faint brush of Derek's fingertips against his own gone as fast as it came. Stiles grasps for them, sliding his fingers through the partings where they fit _perfectly_ and- his eyes widen and he tries to pull away but Derek's hands tighten around his and keep him there. His hands are surprisingly warm. The skin of his fingertips no rougher than damp tree bark as they move against the top of Stiles' hand like leaves against the Autumn ground. Drunk on the thrill of not being punished for being insubordinate, he wants _more_. The oxygen turns to nectar, trickles sweetly down his throat and seeps in to his lungs. Derek stands and Stiles follows his ascent.  
  
Derek leans closer. Closer than he's ever been in this way. The intimacy...suffocating. He towers and consumes and the glint of his teeth as he draws in the breath straight from Stiles own grasping lungs is cruel and sweet all at once.  
  
 _"Auribus teneo Lupum._ " Derek whispers, words dancing across Stiles wet lips like wishes.  
  
Derek kisses him.  
  
Stiles melts like the sunset at the soft press of lips that taste like peppermint and copper. The grass brushes the soles and heels of Stiles feet as if teasing and the trees whisper salaciously amongst one another and it overloads Stiles senses more than blood on his tongue and full in his nose.  
  
He pulls Stiles roughly towards him by his slim waist, the overt show of strength, brutish and addictive. Stiles wanted Derek to _snap_ him in two.  
  
Stiles can feel the length of him through the meager cotton and wills it off himself, the scratch of thin fabric separating him from exaltation. The broad expanse of Derek's chest covered by too many layers of fabric is even more infuriating. Stiles wouldn't ask him to debase himself like that, to bare himself, but all Stiles wants at this moment is skin on skin and nothing more.  
  
Stiles barely registers as Derek lays him down on the grass, on the bed of weak flowers like an offering and reminds him of what he will do to him. Rip him apart and scatter his organs like daffodils and bluebells, dragging dripping lily from his chest and he _knows_ , he knows and he _wants_. A beautiful death, an _honorable_ death and Stiles feels himself harden significantly and Stiles keens and shivers at the hot palms against his skinny sides, smoothing the skin down and making his hair rise.  
  
" _Please._ " It's as if pleading for the rain not to fall, for lightning not to strike in the same place. Futile and desperate. Of all the worship Stiles has endured, memorized and recited, _nothing_ compares to this, to _Derek's_ examination of his final creation; pressing soft kisses to pale skin and dusky nipples hardened in the cool woodland air. Derek murmurs against each freckle and mole a new secret, a new prayer Stiles' brain can't understand or comprehend right now as he chases darkness. He falls back to Earth violently at the gentle drag of scratchy cotton being pulled down and off his hips, down to his knees, barely restraining him. But he doesn't need restraint, doesn't need encouragement to open himself up to the light, tender caresses and _unwavering_ focus against his skin.  
  
Stiles cock twitches, out of the confines of his trousers in to the open air, a thin continuous rivulet of clear fluid leaking from the tip. He bites his lip at the coolness against hot flesh. Derek examines him like prey, but kisses Stiles thighs like a lover, pulling the trousers down fully and throwing them aside, leaving him naked and exposed, his body crushing the flowers and grass beneath him, staining his pale skin with the colour of dirt and beauty. Derek runs a single finger up the length of Stiles cock and Stiles' eyes roll back in to his head.  
  
He only manages to crack open his eyes to see Derek holding a glittering vial of rose tinted liquid. Stiles vaguely acknowledges that Derek saw this coming, _prepared_ for this and yet it doesn't surprise him. Derek does everything purposefully, nothing is spontaneous and _everything_ is _calculated_. He barely thinks of what would happen if he weren't willing. The _slick_ fall of the sticky liquid down Derek's fingers and on to his palm shimmers in the light and Stiles obediently, wordlessly, spreads his legs open like butterfly wings, unfurls his long limbs and offers himself and everything he has and is, his _unworthy_ , _physical_ self that deserves _nothing_ like this, deserves what he was brought here for.  
  
Derek keeps the same distance that Stiles begs to vanquish as he fingers Stiles open. Clinically and effectively opening him up on the ground like a tool and when he does shift to settle atop Stiles, not allowing him more than a glance at pulsing thick flesh, fat, long and taut dark purpled skin, it's as if to push Stiles in to the dirt, to plow him under it and push him through the thick Earth.  
  
Derek breaches him without pause and Stiles digs his fingers in to the dirt, holding himself and Derek _fucks_ in to him with steady and precise movements that blend the flowers together on Stiles' back in to jagged bloody symbols. It feels like _heaven_. Derek moves inside him smoothly, takes him apart with each thrust till he's nothing but strewn flesh, skin and bone _and pools and pools of_ _vivid blood_. His barely there kiss gives Stiles enough bravery to thread his dirty fingers through Derek's thick hair and moan like the damaged whore he his. No. _Was_. Derek made him in to something _more_.  
  
" _You're perfect_." Derek repeats, over and _over_ again till it sounds different each time, till it blends in to a concoction that drives Stiles even wilder, _feral_ with pleasure and pure _joy_.  Stiles babbles, but he can't hear himself clearly, can only hear Derek, but he doesn't care, doesn't care as he throws his head back and arches his back in to the heady pull of sex and _Derek_. He knows Derek won't touch him in certain places, won't give him everything, but that only makes him feel what he can get _that_ much _more_.  
  
He releases ropes of sticky white and his screams unsettle the silent birds.

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
 _Derek cuts her open. He organs spill out and slosh on to the floor. Erica pulls a disgusted face at the sound, or possibly the smell. Certainly not the fear frozen, lax face of the strawberry-blonde strung up to the tree and bleeding out on to the dry dirt._  
  
 _Derek crouches down and digs his hands in to the pile of hot, still pumping viscera and twists and sorts through them, pulling the intestines through his fists quickly. He uses a long claw to cut through the dark liver. Smoker. She twitches and Derek looks up. Her limbs relax again and swing slightly. **Stupid cunt**. He cuts through the organ and takes out the tiny piece of flint. He wipes his bloodied hands on his trousers and stuffs the flint in to his front pocket._  
  
 _When he stands Boyd is looking at him with concerned orange eyes._  
  
 _"It's getting too late. We're running out of time."_  
  
 _Derek nods and stands. He walks back to the camp without glancing back, heading straight for the tent he's claimed as his own for the meantime. He rips the flap open, not bothering with the Velcro and stands hunched over the sleeping form under a thin pastel blanket. The boy's back expands and contracts rhythmically as he breaths._  
  
 _His **perfect** sacrifice._  
  
 _He put it off for too long. He reaches out a hand and brushed the short bristles of  hair, leaving behind a trail of cold blood. He touches his check, red print faded like a blush. Derek can hear the whispers, here the spirits uneasy in the shadows. The supple, virginal form before him, mild blemishes healing, is his._  
  
 _Derek sits and falls asleep like that, leaning against the tent beside the boy and dreams of walking through flames, the smell of lightning on sand and begins to make his plans._

 

 _- &-_  
  
 

  
  
  
In the morning Derek tells Stiles today is the day. Stiles just smiles and nods, reaching out and unfastening Derek's jeans.  
Stiles doesn't tug them down, instead reaching in to pull Derek's half hard cock out and stroke it deftly. He licks a long line with the flat of his tongue up the underside and suckles on the head, tasting the musky earthly flavor and brushing his fingers through the thick jet black curls at Derek's groin, earning him silence and Derek's bare hand threading through his hair and clutching. Stiles takes Derek _slowly_ , as far as he can go and uses his hand on the parts he can not. His mouth stretched impossibly wide around Derek's inhumane girth, Stiles tiny gags and little sounds echo in the tent. He sinks down and buries his nose in Derek's groin sniffing hungrily, saliva dribbling out the side of his mouth mixing with Derek's pre-cum as he struggled not to choke.  
  
The orange of the tent bathes everything in a romantic false apricot hue, paints Stiles eyelashes and the ends of his hair auburn and his red swollen mouth sucking eagerly, tongue working carefully along veins and foreskin that Stiles draws back and lavishes, breath quick and excited as he shifts on his knees. Stiles increases his pace once savoring Derek's thick heavy weight on his tongue isn't enough for the man above him tugging roughly at his hair. Stiles hollows him cheeks, sloppy enthusiastic sucks milking streams of come down his throat. He laps at it, swallowing it and licking it off his palm and fingers till Derek pulls him off with a wet pop.  
  
"Go clean up." Derek says and leaves the tent. Stiles head spins and he looks down at himself, unaware that he'd come completely untouched.

Stiles bathes in the stream and ignores Erica. He long since stopped trying to identify the reason for her tears. He doesn't question it, ignores it and bathes languidly, playing with the water and using the pumice stone. When he asks her where Issac is and her sobs cease, he stops talking. She gives him such a look that he doesn't speak again. However, he feels content, his mind feels... _foggy_ with it. Stiles takes off the necklace, the string soggy and the colour bleeding. He rubs a thumb over the claw with a sigh. Carefully he puts it in the water and slowly uncurls his hand, the current picking it up and elongating it, pulling at it. The tip of his index finger keeps it from running. He mutters to himself and lets it go. Erica massages something thick in to his hair, rubs something oily and sweet smelling in to his skin and rubs something ashy on his forehead with her fingers when he steps out. She takes the bowl she had carried with her and flicks the red powder at Stiles with watery _indecipherable_ eyes. He straightens up as she stares at him, walking back towards the camp, ignoring her outstretched hand.  
   
Stiles sits in front of the crackling fire with Boyd for hours. He crosses his legs at Boyd's side, closes his eyes and begins reciting prayers in to the burning wood. When he opens them, the sky is dark and the flames are unnaturally huge, billowing above him like molten giants, ancient  _Ursus arctos,_ brushing his skin with warning. Boyd helps Stiles stand and Stiles smiles, Boyd returns it and leads him elsewhere.  
  
They walk in the opposite direction, so deep in to the woods that the sky is black when Stiles looks behind himself and finds that Boyd has long since left his side. When he turns around Derek is there. He waited and Stiles' heart _soars_.

Stiles' alter is beautiful. The marble slabs huge and glossy. The flowers and powder and animal blood spread across it in swirling detailed poetry. Oranges, purples, pinks, yellows and stunning _vermillion_ slick and enticing. It's _breathtaking_. Derek hands him liquid fire and he drinks it without a thought. The fleshy wreaths wound around the floor next to the symbols in the dirt glow. Stiles is sure he's never been here before, not sure where he is anymore other than _just_ on the edge of _paradise_. Stiles steps toward Derek, overcome with _feeling_ and although Derek moves to step back, he relents. Stiles kisses him, coaxes his hot tongue in to his mouth and tastes his own blood. Before long they're rutting together like animals. Derek growling like terrifying lightning and thunder and making Stiles dick harder than it's ever been in his pathetic _pointless_ life, life that _Derek_ gave _meaning_ to. His teacher, his Paesidis, _his lover_ and his executioner.  
  
Derek licks the sounds right out of Stiles' mouth and when he has taken those away, Stiles breaths the last few softly in to Derek's ears. Derek holds him tightly like a coiled snake and plucks Stiles strings like a finely tuned harp and Stiles can _swear_ he hears the music in his hollow heart, drifting just on the outskirts of his eardrums and although Derek pulls his hair a bit too hard and bites cruelly, Stiles has never been happier.  
  
Derek tells him he needs to get ready, that they've left it too long and Stiles nods, playing with the flowers threaded through his hair, unsure of how they got there, how _he_ got there as he lies down on the freezing cold slabs and accepts the juicy berries held to his mouth and swallows them obediently, shivering as they're spread over his chest like dye. For a split second Stiles almost considers fear at the glint of Derek's blade, _almost_ considers it and lets it go quicker than the river through the gaps in his fingers.  
  
Derek mutters lilted words that the winds carry carefully east and Stiles feels himself... _slipping away_. Time goes by and the warmth in his stomach is comforting. He calls for Derek who doesn't answer. He closes his eyes and the blade rips through him like wolves teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> *cough* Right so...erm...comments are love as are you. Thank you for reading.


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